He'll Show Them
by Predominantly Normal
Summary: ONESHOT. Tweek has an unusual phobia. Although, due to the amount of coffee he drinks it wasn't unexpected. Just a little bit out of control. Pairing isn't really a thing here... *CHAPTER TWO IS REVISION*
1. Chapter 1

**I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK**

**This is my first draft for my creative writing class. Our objective was to research a phobia and write a short story about it. I chose Hypnophobia, the fear of sleep. And then it clicked. Tweek Fucking Tweak. So ConCrit for the ideas I used and such would be gratefully accepted. If its about the grammer, try not to freak, I did do this on my iPhone, after all. **

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_Music Track: Faint- Linkin Park_

It was at a funeral that I found out my worst fear. No, it wasn't death.

It was sleeping.

Closing your eyes; succumbing to unconsciousness, and the lull of darkness that came with rest. That terrified me. Sleeping in _broad daylight_ was even difficult. The warm sunlight was only slightly more mitigating than the dark of night. I was still sleeping and vulnerable to every murderer, thief, and monster that might prey on me. I was still open to every nightmare that would stalk me during my waking hours.

When I was around ten, a co-worker of my mother's had died. I hadn't gotten to know him real well despite mom bringing him into the house for diner often. I didn't really care though. His death was just another excuse for my parents to dress me up in a suit and wave me around like a billboard. I'd been a little paranoid about going to a funeral anyways. Back then, the corpse turning into an undead creature and ripping out my flesh was a completely logical scenario. It still sort of is.

When we had to pay our respects, my father ushered me into the line to go forth to the casket. I remember a distinct churning in my stomach, as I was terrified of zombies and that dead man could very well be one. I pictured rotting flesh, festering in the sunlight. A hand reaching up and snatching up my suit, and rotted teeth digging into my skull. And when I had to go up, I was practically clawing at my father and begging not to go.

But he gently nudged me to the casket anyways. I leaned over, eyes wide to look at the corpse. Honestly, I'd expected gouged out eyes and green skin. I hadn't expected him to just be laying there with his eyes closed. He looked like he was sleeping; like I could just poke his nose and he'd rouse.

I don't get why funerals do that anyways- pretend that the departed is simply taking a nap. It feels like they're trying to make the illusion that he'll wake up soon and everything can go back to normal. Just a fool's errand to get someone's imagination riled before they stomp it to the ground with the casket they're burying.

I can't understand why, but seeing him in eternal rest struck a chord with me. Perhaps it was just the idea of falling asleep and never waking up. Maybe it was the thought that he would forever be trapped in nightmares and hoax realities. But after that day, I never wanted to sleep again.

I'd shrunk away from the corpse, and I tried to forget his pale, haunting face. I watched as everyone else began to chatter away, already dismissing the service for their own superficial gossip. I remember grinding my teeth under one of the tables, quivering as the thought of night creeping up overtook my mind.

And that's precisely the reason I'm up at four in the morning downing scalding hot coffee. The caffeine in my veins makes me spasm uncontrollably, and I'm shaking worse than an arthritis patient. My eyes are wide, scanning the room for any lurking danger. If my sleep-deprived brain can still count correctly, it's the third day I've gone without a wink of sleep. I'm proud of myself. It's my new personal record.

Coffee plays a big role in my paranoia-induced insomnia. My parents own the local cafe, and they always bring heaps of it back for me. Apparently, I'd been drinking the caffeinated stuff since I was three. It's my parent's personal favorite babysitter. If I'm stressed, they'll give me coffee. If I'm having trouble, coffee's their solution. If I smash my head into a table until blood leaks out of my forehead, they'll smile and pass me a cup o' joe. My mom and dad never were great problem solvers. Often, their quick solutions only did me more trouble in the long run.

I finish off my eighth cup of coffee that night and stand up, staggering towards the counter to get another. When you lack sleep for so long, motor skills start to shut down. Walking feels like your legs are made of lead, and thinking gives you instantaneous headaches. I clumsily pour the rest of the coffee into a mug and take a huge swig of it. It slides down my throat and enters my system, making me shiver.

I glance away from my kitchen and lay my eyes on the couch. Not sure if I'm just hallucinating because of sleep deprivation, but I swear, there are little gnomes crawling across it. My eyes widen and I stumble towards the stove to grab a frying pan. Grasping it in my bony hands, I clamber over to the couch and narrow my eyes. The gnomes wear overalls and little green and blue caps that adorn their brown haired heads. Kind of cute, actually.

But I'm really not thinking about how cute they are as I smash the skillet down, watching as it connects with the cushions of the couch. The gnomes dissipate into the air, and suddenly I'm just a fourteen year old beating a couch with a frying pan. I blink twice, gaining my bearings. I have to say out loud that gnomes don't exist seven times before my brain begins to believe it.

Apparently I'd made a bigger clatter than I had thought, because I hear shifting upstairs where my parents sleep. I hear a straggled groan, and heavy footsteps dragging along the carpet as my father trudges down the stairs. He has a tired look on his face, brown hair disheveled and brown eyes bloodshot. He rubs his eyes roughly before gesturing to the kitchen counter.

I sit on the other side obediently, biting my lip in nervousness. Dad gives me a scowl and gently hands me my cup of liquid caffeine.

"Have some coffee, Tweek." He mutters, words slurring together.

I nod quickly, taking a large chug of my addiction. It calms my nerves a little before sending me into a spasm. My eyes twitch oddly. Dad ignores this.

"Son, it's about time we had a talk." He says in a exhausted voice. I look at my feet, unsure of what to feel. He lifts his big head up and looks me in the eye the best he can. "You need to sleep. This insomnia's not doing good for you." He informs me.

"But I _can't_ sleep!" I yelp, tugging at my hair in anxiety. I'm not sure whether I want to tell my dad about this paranoia of resting, either. He won't understand. He might sell me to a circus, where I can be ostracized at the will of my ringleader. I'll be forced to eat only peanuts for the rest of my young life!

"That's why we went and bought the pills, remember?" He reminds me with a twinge of authority in his soft voice. Pills are another of my dad's favorite quick fixes. Our medicine cabinet is flush with antipsychotics, mood stabilizers, cold syrups, and sleep aids. Most of them haven't even been used before. I'm one prescription bottle away from calling those people from 'Hoarders'.

"But I don't like them." I pout, my bottom lip sticking out.

"You need to take them to be normal, Tweek." Dad snaps at me. Oh, I'm sure he'd love it if I were _normal_. I'll bet he was dreaming about having a _normal_ son before my gnome hunting woke him.

"Sleep scares me." I admit. "It's dangerous, don't you get it? I mean, when you're sleeping you become so vulnerable. To everything. That's just so much _pressure_." I say all this in one breath, voice quavering with unease.

Dad just looks at me with disappointed eyes. He shakes his head and takes in a long, shaky breath. He gently strokes my wild blonde hair and gives me a forced grin. I shake, enraged. How can he just pretend like that? How can he just ignore me when there's obviously something wrong?

"Have some more coffee then go to bed, alright Tweek?" He departs, leaving me wide mouthed and angry.

Now, the thing about my mind is that it's not exactly rational. In fact, it's the polar opposite. I'd gone to a psychologist before, and he'd said I was dangerously prone to mood swings and radical emotions. I was a stack of dynamite with a short fuse.

My mental condition had already been ground upon by my lack of sleep. My father's apathy seemed to set of the explosion. I gnash my teeth together and snatch up the coffee mug, throwing it as hard as I can at the wall. It shatters on contact with a loud cracking noise that splits through my ears. I hope my father hears it.

I stampede up the stairs and into my bathroom, switching on the lights and opening the medicine cabinet. I don't bother to stare at my reflection. It'll just make me angrier. My hand shoots out and snatches up the first bottle on the far left. Zaleplon. Dad had me prescribed to it as well as several others. I snatch them all off the shelves. Ambien, Lunesta, Rozerem, Restoril, all of them are clutched in my hands.

I snicker at the monster prank I'm about to play. I quickly uncap each of the narcotics, looking at the plain white capsules inside. I empty every single capsule into my hand. A single thought runs through my head as I funnel the pills into my mouth._ 'I'll show them_'. I'll show my dad just how dangerous sleep really is. I'll face my fear. I'll show them.

I inhale the last of the sleep aids and clumsily tromp over to my bed. It's clean and unmade. I wickedly throw all the blankets in a disorganized heap and crawl under them. It's warm, stifling almost, but I feel comfortable nonetheless. As my vision slips in and away, I imagine myself in an ornate casket. I imagine my father looking depressed and detached. I imagine some poor young boy staring at my dead corpse in fascination and fear.

And as I finally succumb to the darkness and embrace slumber, only one thought goes through what's left of my consciousness.

I'll show them.


	2. REVISED

**I DON'T OWN SOUTH PARK**

**Turned this in, and I got a 30/30, which was awesome. I had slightly altered it though for fun, and even with the grotesque details, my teacher still liked it so yeah. This is the revised version**

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When I was ten, I'd discovered my worst fear. And no, it wasn't death.

It was sleep.

Sleep, to me, was utterly terrifying and dangerous. Sleep meant becoming vulnerable to anything and everything that could harm me. Be it a murderer, a robber, or the nightmares that constantly stalked my waking hours. My bed and blankets were not something to hide under for comfort. Instead, they were monsters, made to lull me asleep and hold me hostage for all the evil in the world. Sleep wasn't something I just happened to dislike; it was a phobia.

Four years ago, a co-worker of my mother's had died. She had never really gotten to know him, but she didn't mind that much. To her, it was just all the more excuse to dress me up in a suit and flaunt me around like a billboard.

I'd protested going to the funeral from the very beginning. I was the kind of kid who was far too gullible and paranoid for his own good (I still am). The thought of the dead corpse bursting from his casket and making short work of all us living folk was a very real possibility to me. Nobody had really thought to mention to me that zombies and the undead were fictional. And despite my nonsensical fear, I was still forced to attend.

The whole service in general was painstakingly boring, and it really hadn't been scarring until it was time to for people to pay their last respects. Even though we hadn't been in any way connected to the departed, dad had still ushered me into the aisle. He had said something about manners and respect, I think. I wasn't really listening because my fear had caught up to me.

I remember picturing puke-green rotten flesh, a gnarled hand grasping the collar of my shirt, and decayed yellow teeth sinking into my skull. Of course, that didn't happen.

By time it was our turn; I was practically clawing at my father's pant leg and crying, begging not to go. However, dad dismissed my tantrum and pushed me ahead.

I had cautiously peered over the oriental casket, trembling. I'd expected festered peeling flesh and zombie guts. Instead, as I nervously examined the body, I found none of that. Inside, the corpse looked as if he were taking a nap. Like if I poked him hard enough he'd rouse.

I never understood why people went out of their way to pretend the departed were sleeping. Pretending, as if the dead would just wake up soon and everything would go back to normal. Perhaps it was just to rile up their hopes and imaginations before they were stomped to the ground with the casket.

I don't know why, but the whole thing had struck a chord with me. Maybe it was the idea of the vulnerability he was exposed to as he slept. Maybe it was simply the idea that he was sleeping (in a way) as the world spun without him. Either way, after that night, I never wanted to sleep again.

And that's why I was up at three in the morning, chugging scalding hot coffee. If my sleep deprived brain could still count correctly, I believed it was the third day I'd gone without a wink of sleep. I was proud of myself; it's a new personal record.

Coffee played a big role in my insomnia. My dad owned a dingy little coffee shop, and the house was filled to the roof with java beans and grounds. Dad had told me once that I had been drinking coffee since I was three. I wasn't sure that it was good parenting to do that, though. It's sort of grown into an addiction now.

I drank my coffee until I seen the white ceramic bottom of the mug. I'd lost track of the cups I had downed, but I was sure it was at least over ten. I stood up shakily, stumbling to the kitchen for another one. The thing about not sleeping is that after so long is that motor skills start to weaken. I had to keep one hand on the wall as I walked, and I still managed to trip over my feet.

I trudged over to the coffee machine and dumped the rest of the brown liquid into my cup. My eyelids felt like lead, and they were starting to drop. No- I couldn't sleep now. Not when I had made it so far. However, my eyes had a different agenda, as they threatened to close any second.

I pressed my index finger and thumb over them in a vain attempt to hold them open. They kept slipping from my grasp and I eventually gave up, groaning in frustration.

Desperation drives crazy people to do crazy things. I knew quite well that I wasn't at all right in the head, but I didn't think I'd become victim to desperation.

I supposed that when you don't sleep for so long, your brain would shut down just as much as your body. The paper-thin line bordering insanity and common sense became blurred until they were all the same thing. Deciphering the difference between a hysterical act of desperation and a clever fix was near impossible.

My simple logic decided that my eyelids had been the root of the problem all along. People needed to close their eyes to sleep, after all. So I thought, _'what if I never closed mine?'_ If my eyes wouldn't shut, I likewise wouldn't sleep. At least, that's what my mind figured. Though, holding them open with my fingers hadn't worked. Then I grinned as an idea started to form in my head. If I couldn't prevent them from closing, I'd make it impossible for them to close.

I decidedly discarded my coffee and crawled up the stairs. My tired legs dragged across the shag carpet as I made my way to my father's study. I typically wasn't allowed in, but it wasn't like he could know while he was _asleep._ Picking myself up and catching my reflection in the wall mirror, I blinked blankly, as if the person staring back at me was a complete stranger.

Dull platinum hair stuck out at odd angles, disheveled, as if I'd never brushed it in my life. Deep bruises hung under my sleep-deprived eyes, and I was paler than a newly washed sheet. I looked dead; or at least as dead as humanly possible.

I shook myself out of my trance and searched his oak desk, looking for something to 'fix' my eyelids. My eyes rested on the only thing in there with the caliber to fit my needs. The only thing I seen worthy to fix my eyes glinted maliciously at me. It fit in my palm, with a sleek black plastic structure and a shinning silver set of teeth that clamped down.

I smiled viciously, holding the stapler in my grasp.

Perhaps I could've used something more practical, like a pair of scissors, per say, but I decided against it. That was just so cliché and conformist. Like some poorly written horror flick. I wanted to do something original.

With a smile that split my face in two, I held the silver magazine of the stapler so close that the staples contained inside ghosted my pale skin. I was going to fix my problem all on my own.

I carefully pulled the foot of the stapler away from the magazine, pressing the metal teeth to my eyelid. I had propped the piece of flesh up, pressing the skin part to my forehead. It felt slightly uncomfortable, so I figured that I should fix myself quickly and get it over with. I counted off in my head, three…two…one… and on zero, I snapped my hands and the teeth clamped down on my eyelid.

I dropped the stapler in shock as burning pain seared through my right eye. With my parents not more than ten yards away, I couldn't scream or yell. They'd be nothing short of furious if I woke them up at this time of the morning trying to staple my eyelids open. So I shoved my hand in my mouth and bit down hard to stifle my shrieks.

Blood from my damaged eye dripped down my face, staining the shag carpet. The tangy taste of copper was in my mouth as I broke the skin on my hand. After a bit of heavy breathing, I managed to regain my composure. I shakily picked myself up, using the desk to support me.

Looking into the mirror across the dark room, I could see the thin strip of flesh that was my eyelid plastered to my forehead. The sight of blood steadily trickling down my face hadn't daunted me a bit, and the pain was starting to null. In fact, I was beginning to enjoy the sting in my bloodied eye. It distracted me from sleeping.

As I propped up my other eyelid and poised the stapler to strike, I found it difficult to hold the stapler still. I was shaking. My hands trembled like that of an arthritis patient. Taking a deep breath, I slowly clamped the stapler down. I watched intently as my eyelid became connected with the skin above it. The shooting ache and sting was still there, but I didn't mind it that much this time around.

And as I stared at my sleepless reflection, I found my face to be in a wide smile. My eyelids and the whites of my eyes were tainted with a deep red hue. I liked the new color added to my face. Red had always been my favorite. There was a gentle stinging in my eyes still, and I knew the staples were only temporary. After silently cleaning up my mess, I retreated back to the downstairs to pour myself another cup of coffee.


End file.
